


a blue true dream of sky

by blackkat



Series: the last immortal leaf is dead and gold [4]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dimension Travel, F/M, Humor, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Romance, Sex Magic, Truth Spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 09:22:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13972044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: “This day is terrible,” Madara groans, facedown on the table in the dining hall.“You really mean that?” Izuna asks, with a shade of cheer that makes Madara want to strangle him.“Obviously,” Madara bites out, and then his mouth, without any input from his brain—or too much input from his brain, which is rather the problem—adds, “Every time you use that tone of voice I have a vivid fantasy about what it would feel like to wrap my hands around your throat.”Izuna's face does something complicated.“That’s okay, sweetheart,” Tōka says, languidly amused, and pats his shoulder. “I do too sometimes.”“Yes, but with you it’ssexy,” Izuna blurts, and then slaps both hands over his mouth, face turning crimson so fast it’s like someone dumped dye over his head, rather than a truth potion.





	a blue true dream of sky

Madara wakes to the feeling of the body next to him slipping away, reaches out automatically even though he’s still mostly asleep. Callused fingers grip his for a moment, then separate, and Madara makes a grumpy, discontented noise and forces one eye open.

The way his breath catches in his throat would probably be embarrassing if he weren’t so far gone already.

Tobirama is beautiful in the morning sunlight, hair silvered by the glow, body lean and pale and bare to Madara's gaze. Madara's eyes trace the lines of him greedily, desperately, because nothing about their arrangement is set and _what if_. What if this is the last time Madara is allowed to look? What if this is the last time Tobirama turns to him with the curve of a smile hidden away, glances at him across the hall or the table with an invitation in his eyes?

Madara isn’t entirely certain he’ll survive it, when it finally happens, but it’s worth it.

(It has to be.)

He tears his gaze from the bruises in the shape of fingerprints smeared into the skin over Tobirama’s ribs, forces himself to look somewhere else before he drags Tobirama back to bed, away from classes and libraries and the headache of the Guard. If their lives were entirely their own, they could spend all of their time in this room, and Madara wouldn’t regret a moment of it.

Rolling over with a groan, he shoves his hair back from his face where it’s come loose from its tie, then demands scratchily, “The books aren’t going to notice if you aren’t in at _dawn_ , you idiot Senju.”

Tobirama snorts, casting a sly glance back over his shoulder as he pulls his pants on. He’s a damned _tease_ , but Madara hasn’t been able to figure out if he’s doing it on purpose or not, and he doesn’t want to call Tobirama on it, because what if he _stops_?

“The books might not,” Tobirama tells him, “but Koharu and Homura will. I told them I would assist them with their preparations before their next quest.”

Madara has no idea when that started, but…he’s glad. Once, he had to listen to Kagami worship Tobirama’s perfect memory and breadth of knowledge while shying away from Tobirama’s bitterness regarding anything to do with magic or those who used it. It was never healthy, always left Madara sad and guilty and unsettled, angry at the world and Tobirama as well, a little. This, though—this is good. Tobirama has the six students he’s taken under his wing, and Madara has no idea what he _does_ with them beyond finding them books, but all seven of them are happy and that’s enough to know.

“They're almost ready to graduate. Surely you don’t need to hold their hands through a _quest preparation_ ,” he complains, regardless, even as he watches Tobirama pull a light shirt on. No more heavy, thick, high-collared robes, and Madara hardly _minds_ the change, but it does have an unfortunate tendency to make him obsess about the lines of Tobirama’s collarbone, the leanness of his waist beneath the sash, the muscles in his arms that Madara never realized existed.

With a soft snort, Tobirama ruffles his hair into place— _heresy_ , it takes Madara a solid half hour with a hair brush before he’s anywhere close to presentable—loops a bracelet of leather and wooden beads around his wrist, and ties it deftly. “If I had to hold their hands, I wouldn’t be getting out of bed before breakfast for them,” he says derisively, which is standard of his horrible, awful, ridiculous logic. It’s probably a sign that Madara has been spending too much time with him that he _understands it_.

“Don’t skip lunch,” Madara tells him, and stubbornly closes his eyes. Like hell he’s going to watch the bastard leave. “Hashirama always looks like a kicked puppy, it’s shameful.”

A hand on his chin startles his eyes open, half an instant before Tobirama’s mouth slants over his. It’s slow and deep and careful, sends a shiver of pleasure down Madara's spine. He watches Tobirama’s face, catalogues the brush of feathery white lashes against pale cheeks, the streaks of red that mark the skin. _Beautiful_ , something in his whispers, quiet and full of awe, and Madara sighs into the kiss, curls his hand around Tobirama’s nape and doesn’t want to let him go.

He has to eventually, though, because Tobirama is pulling away, lips faintly bruised, breath coming a little faster, eyes warm. “Come find me before lunch, then,” he says, because everything with Tobirama has to be a damned _fight_.

Madara has almost managed to convince himself that he doesn’t like it.

“Don’t think I won't,” Madara retorts, letting his hand slide down Tobirama’s graceful neck. The shiver he gets for it is gratifying.

“I would never doubt you, Madara,” Tobirama says, just dry enough that Madara can't tell if it’s meant to be an insult or not, and before he can demand clarification Tobirama is gone, sweeping out of Madara's room and letting the door fall shut behind him.

With a groan, Madara lets his arm fall over his eyes, grits his teeth, tries to ignore the urge to get up and follow him. Even if he doesn’t come back, at least they’ve had this much, he tells himself. At least they’ve had this. Madara knows how Tobirama looks when he’s laid bare, knows how he sounds when Madara's fingers are on his skin. Knows the feel of his laughter when Madara is pressed right up against his chest and holding him close.

It’s enough. They’ve never discussed this, but Madara has always known Tobirama’s opinion of him. The recent change in attitude after his near-death is going to fade someday, and then—

Well. Madara will adjust. He will. He’ll have to.

This is a good day, though. A good morning after a good night, and Madara lets himself smile just a little, enjoying the moment without thinking of the future.

 

 

“This day is _terrible_ ,” Madara groans, facedown on the table in the dining hall.

“You really mean that?” Izuna asks, with a shade of cheer that makes Madara want to strangle him.

“Obviously,” Madara bites out, and then his mouth, without any input from his brain—or _too much_ input from his brain, which is rather the problem—adds, “Every time you use that tone of voice I have a vivid fantasy about what it would feel like to wrap my hands around your throat.”

Izuna's face does something complicated.

“That’s okay, sweetheart,” Tōka says, languidly amused, and pats his shoulder. “I do too sometimes.”

“Yes, but with you it’s _sexy_ ,” Izuna blurts, and then slaps both hands over his mouth, face turning crimson so fast it’s like someone dumped dye over his head, rather than a truth potion.

It would be hilarious if Madara didn’t immediately tell him, “I think about Tobirama spanking me sometimes.”

Itama, on the other side of the table, sets his spell book down beside his plate with threatening precision and flips it open. Madara doesn’t know what exactly is on that page, but it’s likely something that will be unpleasant for him. The magpie on the boy’s shoulder certainly looks foreboding enough as it is.

Madara just wants to _die_.

“It’s all right, Madara,” Hashirama tells him, though Madara has known the bastard since they were _twelve_ , and he’s absolutely laughing at Madara on the inside right now. “It should wear off in a few hours.”

Madara opens his mouth to curse at him, or more likely tell him that Madara is so _incredibly_ grateful for his steadfast friendship through all the years of hardship between them, when the voice of Madara's doom cuts in.

“What has happened?” Tobirama asks, faintly distracted, his nose buried in a book as he rounds the table. Madara didn’t even hear him come _in_. Of course today would be the one day he didn’t have to be physically dragged out of his library. Of _course_.

At his elbow, Izuna whimpers, so clearly Madara is not alone in his rising surge of horror.

“An accident in the potions lab,” Tōka says, and that’s a tigress’s smile she’s wearing as she looks between Madara and Tobirama. “How nice of you to join us, Tobirama. You're looking well.”

“He always looks good,” Madara blurts, and then wonders if he can actually manage to bite his own tongue off before this goes any further.

Slowly, Tobirama picks his head up, gives Madara a long, careful blink like a cat. Red eyes narrow, and Tobirama looks Madara over carefully, then glances at Izuna, who’s turning purple as he tries to contain whatever comment wants to come out.

“Do I,” he says, and thank _gods_ it’s not a question, regardless of the phrasing.

Izuna squeaks, wrenches his hands away from his mouth and opens it, and Madara braces himself for the fallout, picturing craters and blood and Izuna in pieces, regardless of whether Tobirama has magic or not—

Izuna gets a single syllable out before Tōka slams her mouth over his, dipping him almost out of his chair as she kisses him fiercely. Madara's mouth drops open, and he doesn’t know whether to sputter in offence or cry in relief, because whatever Izuna was trying so hard not to say would _not_ have ended well.

“Oh thank _fuck_ ,” Izuna says as they come up for air, and grins at Tōka. “I adore you.”

“I know,” Tōka tells him, then pulls him up from the table. “All right, I think we’re cancelling class for the rest of the day and locking ourselves if our room. If anyone needs us, piss off and sort it out yourself.”

“Have fun,” Hashirama says, amusement clear in his voice.

“We will,” Izuna says. “Tōka does this thing with her—mmph!”

Mouth still locked to his, Tōka drags him out of the hall.

One brow raised, Tobirama watches them go, then turns that sharp stare on Madara. It’s probably inappropriate to feel a frisson of pure lust bolt down his spine even as he feels a little like a hunted animal.

“Hm,” is Tobirama’s only response, but he closes his book precisely, sets it down on the table and gives Madara a long look. Instead of sitting down, he prowls closer, bonelessly graceful and more than a little terrifying. Madara's sense of self-preservation apparently got its wires crossed with his libido somewhere, though, because he can't take his eyes off of him, can't quite breathe under the weight of those red eyes.

“I look good?” Tobirama asks, and this one is definitely a question, aimed right at Madara.

Madara bites his tongue and determinedly thinks silent thoughts.

“Brother!” Itama protests from across the table, and Madara might think it was because of morals and kindness and not taking advantage of Madara's spelled state if he didn’t actually _know_ Itama; it’s far more likely to be because he doesn’t approve of Madara in general, and his proximity to Tobirama in particular.

“You’re beautiful,” Madara spits, unable to stop the words any longer, and if he’s being honest with himself it’s more to spite Itama than not. “You're the most beautiful person in any room and I can't stop looking at you.”

Red eyes widen, and just for a moment Tobirama looks caught off guard. Like it’s a _surprise_ that Madara is so fucking desperate he’d _crawl_ just to get Tobirama’s attention for half a minute. That’s probably the impetus for the way he grabs Tobirama by the collar of that stupid thin shirt and drags him down, kisses him hard and lets him go as soon as the motion registers, shoving to his feet and ready to bolt. Putting up a strong front suddenly isn’t nearly as important as it was ten minutes ago.

But Tobirama’s hand is around his wrist, and it pulls him up short.

“Can you let _go_ , Senju?” he snaps, frames it as a question so that the potion doesn’t make him spit out the truth of what he actually thinks Tobirama should do.

Tobirama’s gaze is on his face, intent, unwavering. “I could,” he says, silkily, steps closer, leans in until his lips are almost pressed against Madara's ear. “But do you really want me to?”

“I want to hold your hand,” Madara says before he can even _think_ about stopping himself, and groans in despair. Braces himself for mocking, Tobirama’s incredulous express and his inevitable retreat—

Tobirama’s fingers slip down his arm, close over his hand. Without looking away from Madara's eyes, he raises his voice just slightly and says, “You're not going to need us again today.”

That’s not a question, either, and Madara spares half a second to be bewildered by the implication before Tobirama tugs him into motion. It’s not as if he needs any _more_ motivation to get right the hell out of the hall, so Madara lets him, doesn’t protest when Tobirama leads him past the main entrance, through the courtyard, and up the stairs towards the residential quarters.

Tobirama isn’t saying anything, though, and Madara will admit it’s entirely unnerving. For all that he’s a thoughtful man, Madara has spent most of the time he’s known Tobirama personally always braced for a cutting comment—resentful, previously, and then dry after his fall. Almost dying apparently uncovered the sense of humor Izuna always swore he didn’t have, Madara thinks.

(A small part of him hates, _hates_ the way he’s grateful that Tobirama changed. Hates the fact that he’s glad of the difference, the way Tobirama looks at him now, holds his stare and doesn’t simply look past him. It’s…well. So very close to everything Madara has always thought to want, and even if Tobirama in his bed is only momentary, even if it’s cut short tomorrow or the day after, Madara will always be so impossibly glad that he _knows_ what it’s like, to be Tobirama’s lover.

Before the fall, he would never have thought he had the chance.)

Tobirama’s personal rooms aren’t a place Madara has ever been before—all the times they’ve tumbled into bed, it’s been _his_ bed, and he hasn’t ever wanted to push at anything, lest he lose everything. When Tobirama leads him in, though, they look just as Madara always expected them to—books piled everywhere, neat but in a rather cluttered way, with pens and scrolls scattered everywhere it’s possible for them to be, a cloak across a chair and a fire sprite’s nest on a sunny windowsill. It looks lived in, and Madara casts his gaze over it, feels sudden horror curl hot and tight in his chest at the thought that Tobirama could have never come back to this room at all.

It’s been month, but it’s still so hard to get rid of the image of him, still and sprawled boneless at the foot of the stairs, blood staining his hair and seeping across the stone around him.

“Madara,” Tobirama says, and he lets go of Madara's hand, takes a step back and turns to face him squarely. Madara meets his eyes, sees a flicker of something there—

“Don’t end it,” he blurts, wants to punch himself in the damn _face_ as soon as the words are out. Tobirama takes another half-step back, looking startled at that just like he had at the compliment, and Madara _cannot stop himself._ “Don’t end _this_ , I want it, I want to stay in…our…arrangement—” He physically forces his jaw shut around the rest of the words, wants to bolt from the room but…

But he finally said the words. He said them, and there’s no taking them back, no pretending he didn’t mean them. Just the truth, spilled out between them.

Tobirama watches him for a long moment, and where Madara might have once been able to read his expression, the last few months he’s rather lost the knack. Even Tobirama’s body language is quiet, hands at his side, shoulders set but not stiff.

“That’s good,” he says, just when Madara is about to vibrate out of his own skin. “I don’t care to end this, either. Not when we’ve only been together a month.”

 _Together_. The word vibrates through Madara like a drumbeat, tingles over his skin. He takes a breath, not quite sure how he manages it, and Tobirama’s mouth is suddenly on his, stealing the words before he can say them. It’s deep, harsher than the kiss this morning, but Madara answers it, gets his hands in that soft silver hair and drags a moan from Tobirama’s throat.

“Truth spell,” Tobirama gets out as they separate, though his eyes are dazed and the harsh line of his mouth has gone soft and inviting. “You’re under—”

“It’s a truth potion,” Madara corrects, and meets Tobirama’s eyes with a faint smirk. “Kagami,” he says in explanation, and Tobirama grimaces, clearly aware of Kagami's tendency towards overexcitement. And then, when it looks like Tobirama is about to say something, he huffs and adds, “I can _speak_ , Senju, but my self-control regarding _what_ I'm saying is nonexistent.”

Tobirama hums, and there's a spark of interest in his eyes. Leaning in, he kisses Madara again, teasing and soft, and then pulls back. “I can gag you,” he says mildly, “if you’d rather not speak in bed.”

Heat bolts down Madara's spine, and he swallows a groan, listing forward to drop his forehead on Tobirama’s shoulder. “You can't just _say_ that,” he complains.

He can almost _hear_ the roll of Tobirama’s eyes. “It’s a logical way to fix this problem,” he says, faintly annoyed. “If talking is unpleasant for you—”

“It’s not _unpleasant_ ,” Madara huffs, jerking his head up to glare at Tobirama. “It’s just—” He waves an irritated hand, and grimaces. Of course, the one time he _needs_ words, they're nowhere to be found. “You make me. Aargh.”

Tobirama _laughs_ , warm and amused. “Embarrassed?” he asks dryly, and Madara clamps his mouth shut and glares at him. Thankfully, before the urge to spit out a yes becomes too overwhelming, Tobirama curls his fingers into Madara's hair, kisses him softly, mouth yielding and sweet. “That offer of a gag is still on the table,” he murmurs. “But…you're not entirely unbearable when you talk.”

Madara snarls, shoves him back, takes his mouth more firmly with teeth and grasping hands on his waist as he steers them back towards the wall and shoves Tobirama up against it. Tobirama is laughing again, a little more breathless as Madara kisses him fiercely, and Madara thinks of his startled look in the dining hall, the moment he stood frozen when Madara called him beautiful. And—the potion doesn’t do away with inhibitions, but it does make it just a little bit easier for Madara to open his mouth and say, “I love waking up with you.”

Red eyes widen, and Tobirama almost falters. It feels like satisfaction, bright and hot in Madara's chest, and he leans in, kisses the corner of Tobirama’s mouth. “You're beautiful when you're sleeping, even though you're an unmitigated _pillow thief_.”

“When you take all the blankets, I have to content myself with _something_ ,” Tobirama retorts, and his fingers stroke through Madara's hair, light and quick, skimming his neck and shoulders with touches that are almost teasing.

Madara opens his mouth the call him a filthy liar, gets halfway through the first syllable before he realizes it isn’t going to end well, and switches tracks for, “Any excuse to get you curled up against me, you standoffish bastard,” instead.

The sound Tobirama makes as he drags Madara into another kiss is amused and helpless in equal measure, and Madara can taste the smile on his lips. “Bed,” he murmurs, and Madara shivers, gets an arm around his waist and hauls him towards the bedroom. He’s waylaid by a stack of books halfway there, almost kills himself tripping over another precarious pile one step after that, and then Tobirama makes an exasperated noise and takes the lead, tugging him around the rest of the obstacles.

“You're going to hurt my books,” he complains.

Madara snorts loudly, gets a hand between his shoulder blades and shoves him through the door. “Your precious books will survive,” he says. “If they couldn’t, you wouldn’t have left them lying around.”

“I don’t usually have people _stomping_ on them,” Tobirama retorts, but he turns, catches Madara's face between his hands as Madara kicks the door shut, and drags him into another kiss. Madara presses into it, tangling their tongues, tilting Tobirama’s head to get more, deeper, and he’s a maddening, ridiculous man but Madara's never met anyone as intriguing, as sharp-edged and brilliant and arresting.

“You make it hard to breathe,” he says into the space between them, feels Tobirama freeze and kisses him again, harder this time. “Not like _that_ , you idiot,” he huffs “Like—”

There's no explanation he can come up with, no words to accurately describe the way it feels to look at Tobirama sometimes, all the weight of emotion curled up around his heart and filling up his chest. But Tobirama’s eyes are softening, and his next kiss is deeper, almost reassuring.

“Clearly I'm not the only idiot here,” Tobirama tells him. “Even a truth spell can't save you from yourself.”

“Truth _potion_. But you have a point,” Madara mutters unwillingly, because he can't _not_. Clearly Tōka and Izuna had the right idea here, since the only good option is kissing Tobirama until neither of them even _want_ to speak.

The bastard is smiling, even as Madara kisses him. It’s _ridiculous_ , but—

“I think your smirk is attractive,” Madara growls, entirely offended that he has to say it and that it just happens to be the damned truth, tugging at Tobirama’s sash. “Why does it have to be _sexy_.”

Tobirama laughs, gratifyingly breathless, and gets his hands under Madara's shirt, peels it over his head and then lets his own shirt fall to the ground. He wraps his arms around Madara's neck, pressing their bodies together, and it’s lovely but it’s also _aggravating_ , because it makes it twice as hard to get his pants unlaced.

“You're making it hard to undress you,” he huffs, and then, “I want to see you naked, it’s one of my favorite things,” because clearly, _clearly_ Kagami was out to get him with that potion and this is going to be the manner of his death.

 Tobirama’s next breath is sharp, though, touched with something Madara can't name, doesn’t _want_ to name. He had had sex before their first time together, but—nothing intimate, Madara thinks. Nothing that valued him as the marvel he is. Madara might not have fully valued him once, either; his want was superficial, before, when Tobirama only let him see flashes of the man beneath the bitterness. Now, ever since his fall and the changes that came afterwards, it’s something different, something deeper.

He wants to make Tobirama feel like he’s the most valued creature in existence. Wants him to know, without doubt or hesitation, that Madara would do anything for him at all.

“Let me,” he says against Tobirama’s mouth, gets his hands on his hips. “I want—” and it’s the greatest irony in the world that even a truth potion can't fit his feelings into words.

There's a pause, and then a quiet sound of amusement. Tobirama curls his hands around Madara's shoulders, leans in to kiss him briefly, and then gives him a hard push, sudden enough that Madara is taken entirely by surprise. He tumbles backwards, right onto the bed, and lands with a squawk and a bounce. Tobirama snorts, and while Madara is still fighting his way out of the tangle of his own hair, cloth hits the floor. Nimble fingers strip off Madara's pants as well, then catch his hands, and Tobirama slides on top of him, leaning in and kissing him deeply.

“Eloquent as ever,” he says as they separate, lazily amused, and strokes the pads of his fingers across Madara's palms. It’s a light touch, careful and familiar, and Madara shivers and lets his eyes fall closed.

“Do you really expect me to be _eloquent_ when you’re sitting on my cock?” Madara rasps, feels the tug of the truth potion rising, and gives in without a fight. Well, without _much_ of one. “Do you expect me to be eloquent at _any_ time you're in front of me?”

It gets him half a second of frozen surprise, and then Tobirama’ mouth is slanting over his again. The hands around his wrists release, and Madara immediately drops them to Tobirama’s sides, slides his fingers across defined muscle and the swell of Tobirama’s ass, grips handfuls of it and rolls his hips up to press them together. Tobirama gasps against his lips, lashes fluttering shut, and Madara pulls him close, rolls them over to sprawl across Tobirama’s body and curl over him, around him. He wants to keep Tobirama here for the rest of forever, safe from any whispers, any hint that he’s less than other people just because he can't do magic the way the rest of them can.

There's a low chuckle against his cheek, arms curling around his shoulders so that Tobirama can stroke his hair. A smirk against his skin, and Tobirama hums. “Is this you getting me where you want me?” he asks, and that tone is impossibly sly and does entirely inappropriate things to Madara. He has to force himself to swallow, leans in with his forearms braced on either side of Tobirama’s head and kisses him again.

“Anywhere you are, as long as you're happy, is where I want you,” Madara says, and it’s raw, honest without the need for the truth magic riding him. It weighs down the air between them, makes the breath Tobirama takes all the more obvious, and—

Tobirama pulls him down into another kiss, sharp and heady and devouring, with a force behind it that tastes like old pain and new warmth and all the desire that Madara could ever want.

 _I don’t care to end this, either_ , he said, and the words are still vibrating through Madara, a tuning fork struck at just the right note to shatter all the walls he’d built up inside of him.

“I believe that right here is exactly where I want to be,” Tobirama says, and the words have a thread of meaning behind them that Madara can't parse. It’s something deep, though, something that means quite a lot to Tobirama, so he doesn’t ask, just kisses him again, slides a knee up between his thighs, and Tobirama throws his head back with a moan and a shudder, rocks down into the press. He’s hard, a flush creeping up his chest and cheeks, clear and all too obvious in the light pouring in through the wide windows. Sex in the middle of the day feels indulgent, even more intimate than in the dark, and Madara isn’t entirely sure he’s going to survive it.

“I’ll keep you here,” he whispers against Tobirama’s skin, a truth he might not dare to say at any other time. “I’d do anything to keep you here.”

He sees the flicker of sharp humor in Tobirama’s face half an instant before he opens his mouth and drawls, “My brother might object.”

Madara groans, tipping forward to faceplant in the mattress above Tobirama’s shoulder. “ _No_ ,” he says plaintively. “You're not allowed to talk about any of your brothers right now.”

“Maybe I should be wearing the gag, then,” Tobirama challenges, arching a brow at him, and Madara's breath catches at the image. He rocks down, dragging his cock against Tobirama’s, hears the breathy cry, and shifts to the side, rolling them again. Tobirama moves with him easily, settling aside his hips with a throaty laugh, and he slides his nail down Madara's chest, rides the arch of his spine and grinds back.

“ _Menace_ ,” Madara manages, and Tobirama leans down, bites his lips and then smooths his tongue across the sting.

“Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy it, Madara,” he says, and the rasp of Madara's name in his mouth is still a miracle, even months later. Another long, slow grind, dragging their cocks together, and he licks into Madara's mouth, tangles their tongues and kisses him so hard stars spin behind his eyes as they separate. “Tell me, Madara,” Tobirama purrs, “in all the tomes of magic you know by heart, are any of them applicable here?”

Sex magic. Tobirama wants to try _sex magic_ with him. It’s honestly a trial not to come then and there, and Madara groans, head falling back as he tries to regulate his breathing. He’d never brought it up, but—magic and sex together is the closest any mage can get to a partner, all the parts of them shared and on display.

“You’re sure?” he asks desperately.

Tobirama kisses the curve of his cheek, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his lips. There's an sharpness in his eyes that says he knows _precisely_ what he’s asking for, and Madara has to swallow under the intensity of that stare. “I'm sure,” he says, unwavering, and Madara can't do anything but take him at his word.

Dragging Tobirama’s mouth to his, Madara kisses him hard, tips his head and takes his mouth as he calls up a twist of power. Tobirama moans into it, jerks and shivers as Madara trails the magic across his skin, easing muscles, adding just a touch of heat like sunshine. Heavy-lidded eyes flutter open, and that dazed look is back in them, something hazy and wanting, and Madara can't quite breathe. He murmurs the spell to ready him against Tobirama’s lips, kisses him again and steals the low, throaty cry right from his mouth as he shudders.

“All right?” he murmurs, and Tobirama breathes out a laugh, presses his forehead to Madara's shoulder. One hand slides down Madara's chest, a caress that makes him gasp, and it drags a moan from his throat when Tobirama’s fingers close around his cock.

“Better than,” Tobirama tells him, and shifts back, lining Madara's cock up to his slicked, stretched hole. The heat of him is unbearable as he takes it inside of him, sinks down long and slow and steady right to the root. Madara cries out, fingers going bruisingly tight on Tobirama’s hips, but Tobirama doesn’t pause, rocks back with a long, beautiful arch of his spine, head tipped back, throat working as he swallows. He’s by far the most glorious thing Madara has ever seen, steals every last thought from Madara’s head as he smirks, eyes slowly focusing right on Madara.

“Good?” he asks roughly, and it’s nothing less than a tease.

Madara wants to _ruin_ him for anyone else, wants to keep that expression trained on him forever.

“You're amazing,” he says, hoarse and honest, and has to laugh. “You smug asshole,” he adds, because that will never not be true.

The rasp of Tobirama’s laugh is beautiful, low and heady in the sunlight. He’s backlit against the blue sky, a creature of light and flesh and heat, and Madara groans as Tobirama rolls his hips, rides Madara's in a long, slow slide of clenching muscles that shatters every ounce of Madara's self-control. He grips Tobirama’s hips, drags him down into the motion as he thrusts up hard, and Tobirama takes it easily, muscles cording in his thighs as he rides the motion, pushes back and then slides up again as Madara thrusts. It sends pleasure scattering across Madara's nerves, and he moans, hears Tobirama’s fractured attempt at his name and just—looks.

Tobirama looks back, sunlight catching on the angle of his cheekbones, the red marks on his skin, the curve of his shoulders and the hard lines of his torso. He’s incredible, so beautiful, so strong, and Madara reaches for him, feels fingers twist through his own. Tobirama grips his hands as he rides him in languid, breathless rolls of his hips, the backs of Madara's hands pressed to his skin so he can feel the pace of his heartbeat, expression twisting as the pleasure builds.

It’s like riding the swell of a wave, every thrust washing heat though Madara, every sharp, desperate breath winding the tension tighter. Tobirama gasps his name, and Madara wants to kiss him, wants that clever mouth, that sharp tongue, but he also can't look away, watches and can barely bring himself to close his eyes as Tobirama’s thrusts grow fractured, fast, each push of his body more desperate.

 _So beautiful_ , Madara wants to say, but he can't follow the thought through. Drags their twined hands down, instead, to get a grip on Tobirama’s bobbing cock, grits out a cry as Tobirama tightens around him, jolted forward by Madara's thrust with his face twisted in pleasure. Madara twists his fingers around Tobirama’s cock, drags a long stroke from base to tip and then sweeps his fist over the head, strokes down.

It’s enough. Tobirama makes a sharp, graceless, breathy noise and comes, release splattering Madara's stomach. The clutch of his body is perfect, silken-hot and tight, and Madara gasps, thrusts up hard and short and frantic, and the noise it tears from Tobirama’s throat is pleasure on the edge of too much. He falls forward, grinding back into Madara's thrusts, gets his lips on Madara's and kisses him, sloppy and off-center, mouth captivatingly soft. Madara breaks apart beneath him just like that, Tobirama’s taste on his tongue, Tobirama’s hands gripping his, body pliant and giving as Madara shoves up into him. Release shudders through him, a wash of tension unspooling, and he gives a shaky cry as it fades.

Tobirama kisses him through it, equally breathless, grip softening. He braces his arms on the bed beside Madara's head, lifts himself up and off Madara's cock with a bitten-off sound, and Madara gets his arms around him and tugs him down, rolls them over and pulls Tobirama right up against his chest. Closing his eyes, he presses his face into the curve of Tobirama’s throat, silver hair tickling his cheek, and—

The sky is so blue, and the sun is bright. It’s like there's nothing and no one else in the world, just the two of them and the light spilling in through the windows to turn Tobirama’s hair to spun silver.

At the very back of his mind, the truth magic tickles at his conscience, but it’s fainter now, able to be ignored in the face of Tobirama in his arms. He’s said everything he needs to, regardless, and Tobirama is still here. It’s everything he could have imagined in the very best of his dreams.

With a quiet hum, Tobirama strokes his hair back from his face, curves his fingers around the back of Madara's head and simply holds him. “I see we didn’t need the gag,” he says lightly.

Madara scoffs, pinches him lightly where his hand is resting against Tobirama’s ribs, and doesn’t bother to move a single inch more than that. “Bastard,” he mutters, and Tobirama laughs, throaty and warm. Madara wants to keep hearing that sound for the rest of his mortal life, and every second that Tobirama allows him he’ll hoard and cherish.

No force in heaven or on earth will separate them if Madara has anything at all to say about it.


End file.
